Someone's Watching Over Me
by Page of Cups
Summary: Contemplative piece. Draco's afraid, life is hard, and Ron is gone. DMRW slash.


**Penname**: Page of Cups

**AIM Screen Name**: AndromedanQueen

**Title**: Someone's Watching Over Me

**Pairing**: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Contemplative piece. Draco's afraid, life is hard, and Ron is gone.

**Disclaimer**: Am not J.K. Rowling or associated with Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Warner Bros., etc. No copyright or trademark infringement intended. Am poor. Not making any money off this trifle of a story.

**Author's Note**: Don't know what to make of this piece. Take it for what you will. Inspired by Hilary Duff's (I know, I know) 'Someone's Watching Over Me.'

* * *

A cloud of smoke hung in the air, stinging his nostrils, and causing his eyes to water. Hanging from his fingers drooped a lit cigarette. He lifted his wrist from where it formerly lay limp across the chair's arm, and brought it to his lips, pinching the filter in place. Draco Malfoy sucked a long drag off his cigarette, the tip glowing brighter in the dark, and leaned forward to flick the ash into the glass tray.

Harry and Hermione had already come and gone, paying their respects out of habit, trying to pry him out of the darkness. The blinds were still open from Hermione's attempt to bring light into the small flat, allowing the dying sun to filter pink and yellow rays through the slits. They told him to be active. They said time would ease the pain. They claimed they understood. They didn't. Couldn't possibly even understand.

Two years had passed. With time, it _had_ gotten easier. Harry and Hermione were right about that much. Today, though—June third—never got easier. Draco took off work at the Ministry where he worked on researching counter-curses and potions to oppose the developments in the Dark Arts. Despite Voldemort's demise, there was still a lot to be accomplished in the field, but Draco afforded himself today, even if it meant double the work tomorrow.

He shut himself up, lowered the blinds, and turned out the lights, sitting in darkness, mourning. Around noon, Draco emerged from his haven for the ten-minute flight to the cemetery.

Dead flowers from his last visit lay broken and withered before the tombstone. He replaced them with his latest gift—orchids, fresh, beautiful, alive, and so unlike the person laying dead and cold beneath them.

Draco came here often. The atmosphere was peaceful, and staring at the letters engraving the tombstone, Draco felt he was with him again. Sometimes it was the only way Draco got through the day, visiting this place. It brought back painful memories, but it brought back more good than bad, and Draco was grateful for that.

Ron had died during the final battle against Voldemort. That stupidly loyal Gryffindor bravery had led him, Potter, Granger, and Longbottom into the middle of a Death Eater ambush. Harry and Hermione landed in St. Mungo's for several weeks. Most people didn't think Harry was going to make it, but he eventually pulled through. Longbottom had been captured, tortured, and killed. Ron died during the ambush—the first casualty of the final battle, all in the name of good. Draco could still see his smiling, freckled face in his head, grinning, and telling him he'd see him soon. He had been so confident—swore to Draco it was the right thing to do. He had been so optimistic—had full faith in Harry to bring them all out of it alive. Draco didn't see him soon, however. Besides his mangled corpse, Draco never saw him again.

Draco spent close to an hour in the cemetery, rattling off the latest menial things to happen in his sad, pathetic life. It took a great deal of effort not to cry. Every day took a great deal of effort to get through. When Draco ran out of things to prattle on about, he sat in silence for a long time, staring at Ron's name. His fingertips touched to the stone, tracing the letters. It was amazing how much one could miss a person, Draco thought. He never knew he could feel such a loss. Never imagined he could feel like this over a person after everything he'd been through with his father—especially never imagined he could feel like this over Weasley. It was as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. There was a tremendous amount of guilt boiling in his blood. If only he had asked Ron to stay, or if only he had gone along, too, and not been so stubborn about siding with Harry . . . maybe Ron would still be alive today.

They'd finally gotten together in the middle of the seventh year of Hogwarts after seven long months of reluctant friendship kindled after Draco assisted the Order in capturing his father. Their relationship had progressed faster than Draco thought possible. Their first kiss had been under the mistletoe at Order headquarters on Christmas Eve. Two weeks had hardly passed before they first slept together. Barely three months later, Ron told Draco that he loved him, and Draco, though reluctant, returned the sentiment. A month and a half later, Ron went off with Harry, Hermione, and Longbottom, never to be seen alive again.

It was hard to swallow then. It was hard to deal with now. Everything had happened so fast. The whirlwind of emotions had been so strong. When the last day of his Hogwarts career came, it was without Ron that he boarded the train, leaving behind everything good he'd even known. Making it into the Ministry had been easy, but making a life was hard. Before he died, Ron and Draco had made countless plans for life after Hogwarts. Doing it without Ron seemed impossible. Draco had only recently learned how to stand on his own two feet without his father's money. He still stumbled every day, but as hard as things got, he pushed on forward.

He contemplated suicide once a week. Since Ron died, everything seemed to go wrong. He couldn't do it, though. Couldn't let Ron die in vain.

Draco leaned forward again, flicking the last of his cigarette into the ashtray and put it out. He pulled another from the crumpled pack lying on the coffee table, flicked his lighter, and cupped the flame with his left hand. Taking a long drag, Draco walked over the window. It was dark now. Pinpricks of starlight stared at him from their place in the heavens. His sitting room was bathed in the moonlight, and Draco lifted the blinds, allowing more light to stream into the room.

He knew he needed to move on with his life. Harry and Hermione told him so once a week at Sunday brunch. Draco didn't know if he could. They had loved him, but not in the same way Draco had. They said he was their best friend, and they missed him, too. There were few times in his life when he'd admit it, but Draco was scared. He was scared he'd have to drudge through the rest of his life alone. Afraid that the only companions he'd ever have would be Harry and Hermione.

"I miss you so much," Draco whispered, staring up at the stars. He leaned his head against the window frame, taking another long drag off his cigarette, and spilling ash onto the carpet. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

Draco turned from the window, walking back to his chair. He took one last drag off his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. With one last look at the stars, Draco walked to the back of his flat to an empty, cold bed.


End file.
